#79 in a series.
I don't flirt good. I don't write good, either.
I mean, I do alright at first, flirting, but I always go too far. I should stop earlier. But when it's going well, I get eager and don't have the wherewithall to stop. I also don't know if that's the right usage of that word, wherewithall, but I kinda like it, so I'm leaving it. Nobody's reading this blog anyway.
Here's a f'rinstance about my lack of knowing when to stop the flirt:
My department at work was extremely slow one day so they sent me to a different department to finish out the workday. I spent two hours next to a very attractive young woman I'd seen around the plant but whom I'd never spoken with. The first hour was painfully quiet, both of us barely acknowledging each other's presence. The silence was more disturbing than if I'd actually said anything. But that's not true as you soon will see.
To break the ice, I commented on her hair. Normally I wouldn't comment on a woman's hair as I have yet to meet a woman who likes what her own hair looks like. Fortunately, this woman was okay with it. Her hair looked to be naturally red, but the longer it got, the more purplish-black it got. That part was obviously not natural.
"I like the way your hair goes from red to black like that," I said. She actually smiled -- and maybe even blushed a little -- and said, "Well thank you."
Then, as always, I went too far.
"Can I put it in my mouth?" I asked.
Then, it got eerily quiet again.
